Flash Issue 6 by Missouri Baptist University

Missouri Baptist University Department of English Issue 5 2020

Flash! is a collection of short stories published by the Department of English at Missouri Baptist University, One College Park Dr., St. Louis, MO 63141. Submissions: To submit a flash fiction piece, please attach it as either a Word file (.doc or .docx) or a PDF to matthew.bardowell@mobap.edu. Submitted stories must be 50-1000 words in length; however, exceptions can be made at the editors’ discretion. We consider up to three stories from each author. Please include the following information when submitting a flash fiction piece: author name, school or affiliation, story title, number of works submitted (up to three stories are allowed), word count for each story, and a short biographical statement (50100 words). Multiple stories can be submitted in a single document. Interested students, faculty, and friends of the Department may submit previously unpublished manuscripts to matthew.bardowell@mobap.edu for consideration. Flash! is published once annually, exclusively online. Our submission deadline is September 1st, and our target publication date is October 1st.

Missouri Baptist University reserves the right to publish accepted submissions in Flash!; upon publication, copyrights revert to the authors. By submitting, authors certify that the work is their own. All submissions are subject to editing for clarity, grammar usage, and Christian propriety. The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect the views of Missouri Baptist University.

Hannah Gooch

Bobby Upchurch

Mason Arledge

Hannah Gooch

Adam Schmidt

Matthew Bardowell

Micah Perstrope

Trevor Nation

Dear Readers, Throughout the years, Missouri Baptist University has showcased the talents of many students within its community. Even outside our community, Flash! has given burgeoning and seasoned writers alike a chance to display their work and to provide its readers with meaningful stories. 1 Peter 4: 10—11 states, “Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.” I am excited to provide writers with a venue for their gifts in this issue.

Editing Flash! has given me the chance to share the talent that has been presented to me over the past few months. We hope Flash! will grow and flourish as new issues are published. Dr. Bardowell and I invite you to take the time to read the works of these writers and think about submitting something of your own. Thank you to those who have shown support for this journal. Happy reading, and God be with you all. Hannah Gooch, Editor St. Louis, MO January 2022

The East Tena Express, the only direct route to Paradise Proper, groaned to a stop at the dark, sleepy Garden Valley Depot. As the door flew open, the conductor gave his invitation: all were welcome, but there could be no stops. The first to climb the iron steps was an olive-skinned woman in a long, golden tunic. Large wings spread from her arms, and an enormous, gray feather adorned her head. Following her, and moving with determination and agility inconsistent with their apparent age, were three elderly women. Their skin was wrinkled like the trunks of ancient trees. The first carried a spindle; the second a set of worn, marked stones; and the last a pair of shears. Behind them was an imposing, stern-faced man. One eye was patched while a furrowed brow obscured the other. His heavy movements shook the train, the hilt of his sword scraped across the doorway, and he was forced to remove his winged helmet to stand erect in the car. Two wolves walked before him, and, perched on his shoulders, two ravens whispered continually into his ears. A group clad in shining armor rose from the platform next, lifting their dragon crest and singing of quests and glories. After them came a silent man. His eyes had been replaced by coins, and he wore a crisply pressed shirt, Sunday slacks, and a wrinkled apron. The last to ascend was a group of children with dirty faces and thread-bare clothes but hopeful, smiling eyes. Joyful little beggars.

The doors closed, and the East Tena Express moved forward. The passengers spoke amongst themselves of Paradise Proper. The conductor smiled. “It is the most wonderful place,” he said. They all agreed and looked eagerly through the windows. In sun and storm, over mountains and through valleys, the engine traveled unshaken until the lights of a city radiated into view. “Is that Paradise Proper?” One of the children asked.

“No,” the conductor replied, “it is only the town of Hub Ris.”

The winged woman rose. Arms extended, she approached the door.

“It is Paradise Proper. Balance has been met.” The elderly woman with the weathered stones tossed them to the ground. They did not roll but landed with decision. “Here must the thread be cut.” The ravens spoke in rapid, hushed tones; then, the solemn warrior stood. “It has been postponed but must now be faced.” The knights followed the others to the door clasping hands and renewing their chants of victory. “Over seas and through valleys of fear, our journey has led us finally here!” The coin-eyed gentleman said nothing but adjusted his apron and followed suit. “This is not Paradise Proper,” the conductor explained. “I can show you, but there can be no stops.” No one responded. Each stood by the door. The city was around them now. A spectacle to behold. Every pleasure. Every dream. Everything. The conductor implored, “I assure you, this is not Paradise Proper.” They could not hear.

“The scales are set.” “The shears are sharpened.” “The end is come.”

“Our prize awaits.” The conductor stopped the train. He opened the door. One by one they left. The knights paused momentarily as if remembering some unfinished task, then left with the rest.

When the doors closed and the East Tena Express resumed its course, only the beggars remained. On the horizon was brilliant light.

My kids ran away screaming when they saw me. Of course they did. I mean, what else had I expected? I wanted to prepare them—warn them I’d be different. There’s just no way to soften this blow. *** I’m a sociologist. My parents were sociologists. I married a sociologist. Our children have digital image projections of Auguste Comte and Jane Addams, famous sociologists, in their rooms. We take it all very seriously. So, when we were contacted in regards to the Interplanetary Development Program, it didn’t come as a surprise, nor was it an opportunity we could pass up. The stasis-domes had been in development on the eight planets within Earth’s immediate orbital sphere for years. Drones were used for phase one construction and eco-experimentation. This year, teams of human experts were sent to field test the viability of sustainable colonization. That’s how I ended up on Mars. Everything was supposed to be safe. The risk calculations were very favorable. But, there was something in the air. Something. . . that changed us. The transformation wasn’t subtle. I woke up one morning and my pasty white flesh had turned red. Not skin-tone red, or sunburn red. Red. Like the universal sign of danger red. Like the “R” in RGB red. Like the “if you see me from a distance, you’ll be preparing to stop” red. Admittedly, I did not handle the discovery well. After a significant amount of screaming, but not before I had fully accepted the weight of this initial shock, the next hit came. I was grabbing my head. You know, like people do when they’re experiencing varying degrees of mental breakdown. And my hair, my stupid curly locks, broke to pieces in my hands. I’m in my early 40s. Balding is a genetic probability I have been bracing myself for. This was not balding. It shattered like glass on my skull. My follicles were frozen. Frozen. As in, something inside me turned my hair to ice. And it didn’t stop there. Being a walking, bald caution sign was bad enough, but apparently my hair needed. . . a replacement. A rust-colored gas leaked from the pores in my skull and provided me with a permanent smoke-updo. Technically speaking, it’s some combination of vaporized iron and carbon-dioxide. Pragmatically, it just makes me look even more like a terrible design for a children’s cartoon. *** The Department of Interplanetary Travel is not sure if we’re toxic, so they’re keeping us in a secure facility on earth now. We were allowed to use the holo-caller to

contact our families. . . and that’s when my kids ran away screaming. Thankfully, the neighbors caught up to them a mile away from the house. It might have been better to use the 2D-video. I really needed to talk to them. See, I received a message from my wife today. She is returning from her Venusian deployment next week, but her biochemistry has experienced some adverse reactions. Family pictures might have just become very interesting.

Dust settled against his cloak and grasped his shoes as he stepped over a fallen stone to his regular seat in box five. The lone chair was the only thing consistently cleaned in the place. Keeping his coat on, he sat down, breathing in the air. It smelled rustic, nostalgic, and yet he could still feel the permeating aura of beauty caress his shoulders and welcome him to the theatre. For ten years he had visited, first as a young man enraptured by the world of the stage. The first five years he watched and absorbed the beautiful displays, but the last five provided a different experience, transporting him to a distant reality. His affection for the artistic palace had only grown as a result. He checked his watch. He was early tonight. Looking around he saw no one else had arrived. No one would. He was the only one who attended the show on most nights. Occasionally, some weary soul would stumble upon the forgotten theatre and take a seat in the fourth or fifth row. He or she would observe the performance, entranced by its ethereal splendor, and then leave with tears in the eye, unable to accept or understand the emotional revival within the heart. The theatre had once represented a space of splendor and majesty, but time rebelled against the house of art. In the past, it resided in the center of the city as a place of hallowed significance, but the people had moved away and forgotten the stage. Intricately designed pillars now sported cracks, the gold inlaid lions dulled, and paintings of roses and orchids peeled. Even the Greek goddesses frowned at the rugged state of the theatre. Fabric frayed, metal rusted, and the stage flaunted the marks of age as if the weather had enacted vengeance upon the place. Box five, however, was always maintained, kept clean and fresh for its visitor. Tonight, a bouquet of colorful flowers sat beside him in a vintage vase. He pulled out a rose—how many times had a rose accompanied him?—and pricked his finger, just to know it was real. A drop of blood fell to the floor. At ten, the show started. It always started at ten. Every night. The light went out and the stage glowed with delicate beauty. Beauty. It was the only thing he much cherished nowadays. They performed the same show every night, the same one they had for the last five years, but it was his favorite, and so he made sure not to miss it. Each performance revealed to him something new and stirred emotion within him. He could not experience such a feeling from any other stimulus. Life had been cruel to him that way. When the curtain rose, the violin pierced through the night sky. He closed his eyes. He had memorized the entire performance and visualized the song sweeping across the stage. He watched the first half of the production with his eyes focused on one particular ballerina. She was the prima, but unlike any he had seen. Instead of an

air of pride or grandiose persona, she embodied grace and humility, her movements fluid like the waters of Lucerne. Three-quarters through the show, his favorite segment occurred. She danced alone on the stage, the strings accompanying her with mystical melodies. Her arm would reach for the stars then extend parallel to earth while the fire of pain and feeling echoed outwards from her heart. Her feet moved as if on air, careful not to break the fragile surface, and her body moved with a spiritual elegance. She made him wonder if she was real or a hallucinatory dream. Yes, she was the reason he attended. She was the one he loved. She was beautiful even as the stage restrained her and prevented her from being with him. All he wanted was to spend one more day with her. As the number ended, rain started descending from the sky. He held out his hand. He could sense the drops and yet felt numb. Twirling his hand over, he watched the water slide down his palm before dripping to the ground. His eyes then gazed at the roses drinking the liquid, the droplets sparkling with the moon’s light. Looking upwards, he stared into the heavens, searching for a missing soul, and once he realized the rain’s sender, he felt a tear intertwine with the water on his cheek. When the curtains closed, he stood, taking a single rose in his hand, and vacated the box. He walked down the cracked stairs and through the rows of chairs. Just off stage, a dusty piano rested as if someone had started to move it and then retired. With one hand, he lifted the cover and blew away the dust. Pulling out the bench, he sat down. His fingers shook as they hovered about the ivory. Closing his eyes, he played the note of his heart, following it with a melody laced with love and heartache. She would hear it. She always did. As his left hand joined, the notes echoed against the concrete walls, calling her to return. As he played, she walked from behind the curtain and danced to his melody with motions even more beautiful than anything she had done during the performance. She glistened with the rain as it drenched his hair and his coat, causing him to shiver. Her toes supported her weight as she leaped into the air, an angel with wings. She danced and he played, and their hearts embraced. The notes softened and slowed as the song neared its end. She moved toward the edge of the stage and stared at the pianist. His eyes looked down, but when he played the final, peaceful note, they fixed on her. He stretched his hand for her, hoping to touch her once more, but the music’s sustain ended before he could, and then she was gone, leaving him alone at the piano.

A map is no good if you can’t read it. Sometimes, people just don’t know how. They see the lines and the angles and can’t make any sense of it. Not me. I’d been reading maps for a while now, trying to move from this place to that, and I could mostly understand them without issue, but I couldn’t read this map, at least not today. I flipped it upside down, thinking I had it wrong, but it couldn’t have been. It was the right map and the right way up too. I just couldn’t read it anymore. “Excuse me, do you know how I can get back to Buchanan Street?” The man glanced at me, scoffed, and kept walking. I didn’t know what the big deal was. I just needed directions, but I guess a person should never ask for help from a guy in a pinstriped suit. I analyzed the map again. Based on it, I should be standing at the corner of Buchanan and Caraway, but the road signs in front of me said otherwise. I must’ve missed my target by a couple of streets, but I couldn’t find my current location on the map. Somehow, I was lost, but I could’ve sworn I was just on Buchanan Street. Yes, I remember staying at the hotel for a whole week. My stuff was still there. It was a nice place with a view overlooking the water. I could walk straight down to the beach from my room. On the first day, we even met a young actress on the sand, and on the second, we attended the rooftop party of a secretive millionaire. “Excuse me, do you know how I can get back to Buchanan Street?” The nice lady took up my concern. She seemed shocked at first when I showed her the map, but she lowered her sunglasses and took a glance. Then, she looked at the street signs before informing me she had no idea what I was talking about. I asked her where the corner of Buchanan and Caraway Street was, but she said she hadn’t heard of such roads and went on her way without another word. The corner of Buchanan and Caraway Street…I knew where it was, and I could see it on the map. Based on the pattern of roads, I should have been standing right at the intersection, but the surroundings looked different. It didn’t resemble the corner I knew. The restaurant with the brass balcony railing was gone. The little boutique with the window display was gone. The bookstore was gone, and Phil’s drugstore was gone. Instead, buildings standing a hundred feet tall had replaced them. They ruined the beauty of the place, the eyesores. I guess beauty didn’t matter as much nowadays. Ugly things that made money were valued more than a nice view of the waves. Price, value…people didn’t know the difference.

“Excuse me, do you know where Buchanan Street is?” No, it didn’t exist, the man told me. Except, it had to exist. I’d been there. I was just there. I even recalled the flashing green light at the intersection. It was always green, always flashing. “I just want to get back to Buchanan Street.” With a wave of a hand, the man walked away, hobbling with a limp. I remembered Buchanan Street. I was there yesterday with my dear Cecilia. We came back to the hotel, entered through the front, and then tiptoed along the beach and made sandcastles out of the dust before dining in, just the two of us. After dinner, we bumped into Amory and his new girlfriend and then met Mr. Patch, who went on about preferring romanticism to realism, and then we spent an hour or so out on the town with the lot of them before returning to the corner of Buchanan and Caraway. I was just there on Buchanan Street.

Where was Cecilia? I was supposed to meet her on Buchanan Street this afternoon. Where was she? I took my wallet out from my back pocket and slipped out a photo of the two of us staring at the camera. We were younger then, fresh in love. “Excuse me, how do I get to Buchanan Street?”

No answer. A group of kids walked by while staring at the phones in their hands. I didn’t have one. I had a map. Back in my day, kids rode bikes along Buchanan Street, and they would help lost people. Then, they would go hang out at the ice cream parlor at the corner of Buchanan and Caraway. “Excuse me, how do I get back to Buchanan Street?” Buchanan Street. It runs east to west. It intersects with Caraway Street about halfway through. I should know. Cecilia and I would visit Buchanan Street and stay in the hotel overlooking the water. Things were simpler then. Yes. “How do I get back to Buchanan Street?”

My mom would take me to the craft store whenever I did something big, but I never liked crafts. What I did like about the store, however, was the giant section of candy occupying a fair square of the store right when a customer entered. This time, we were celebrating all the A’s on my second-grade report card. “You can spend five dollars on candy,” she said. Nowadays, that’ll buy a few bars, but back then, five dollars felt like an endless supply of sweet snacks. Of course, I went for the extra-large Pixy Stix, a blast of pure grape sugar. I snagged some giant, chewy SweeTarts and a box of Bottle Caps. My favorite, however, was the Smarties sucker. I would gnaw on those things forever. While I loved the candy, what I remembered most about that store was the bell that rang whenever someone opened the door. It wasn’t friendly like most welcoming chimes overhead. It was too loud and sounded like chalk grinding against the board but with a hint of reverb.

*** “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!” I probably deserved it, even if I didn’t know why. I was dating Bethany Swenson, or at least, I was up until this minute. She was all right. Not particularly attractive but not ugly; I always thought I’d leave her for someone a bit prettier in the end, but now I had to prove it. She didn’t know I thought that, of course. Apparently, however, she heard a rumor that I made out with Laura Gusson, which was a flat lie even if I wished it was true. Laura was a dime and smart too, but she’d never date a James Dean type like me. She was into the Ivy League scholars. I tried to explain to Bethany the whole shenanigan was a lie made up by her friend, who’d had it in for me since middle school, but she didn’t buy it. I think she had become fed up with me anyway. To be honest, I was glad it was over. It meant I didn’t have to break up with her a few weeks before Valentine’s Day. High school love. What is a young, dumb, and broke student supposed to do? In a spit of rebellion, I did let the door hit me on the way out. It took too much effort. I stopped in the threshold, let it hit me, and then had to close it behind me. I determined then and there the idiom made no sense. It hurt more to let the door hit you on the way out.

***

I opened the car door for my wife as she loaded the package into the backseat. I’d never expected it: me as a father. But the reality of it was staring me in the face. A little doll with a puff of hair sat in a car seat. We gave her a name all right, but I knew I’d be spending the next year wondering if we chose the right one. I tried to convince my wife we should test them out, see which one we liked better, but she had her mind set, and to be honest, I liked the name too. When we arrived home, the garage door opened, then I opened the interior door for my wife, and then we took the baby to her room where I once again opened the door. There are so many doors in the world. Everyone’s always going in and out, and most of the time, people don’t know why, and they don’t even notice the doors as they open and close. “She’s actually a halfway decent-looking baby,” I remarked. I thought most babies were ugly balls of skin with odd-shaped heads and annoying tempers, but this one looked like it would turn out all right so as long as I didn’t mess it up. After we stared at it for a few hours, the baby went to sleep, and I decided to vacate the room to grab some coffee. I left the door open a crack just so I could hear the baby if she cried. *** My grandmother lived to be one hundred. She outlived her late husband by over three decades, and even in her later years, she spent her time assisting others. Little, frail, old grandma helped out at the soup kitchen until she was ninety-three. She was tough. As I walked through her house, I could smell the scent of vanilla candles that had been baked into the walls from overuse. The kitchen was tiny and barely big enough for a person to waddle through. A kettle still rested on the stovetop. I opened one of the cabinet doors and counted the mugs she had collected over the years. Fiftyseven. Most were gifts. For about fifteen minutes longer, I sauntered about the house, looking at pictures and artifacts, none of which Grandma could take with her. I supposed they’d move along just like her. Before I left, I took one last glance at the orange carpet as I slipped outside, closing the door behind me.

The blue and red lights caught Miranda’s attention in the distance. She looked down at her hands, covered with the red splotches that indicated the crime she had just committed. Before she knew what was happening, the front door was kicked open, and she was greeted by two male police officers, each pointing their guns at her, expecting to use them at any moment. “Drop your weapon and put your hands where we can see them.” She had completely forgotten about the blade that was still in her hand and let it fall to the floor with a thud. She felt like she had no control over her body, as if her hands and other limbs were being controlled like a puppet. Her hands went behind her ears. The officers took that as a sign of defeat and forcefully placed her in the icy-cold handcuffs. She was then led to the back seat of the waiting cop car, and they all pulled away from the scene. The only sound could be heard on the cop’s radio, giving the grotesque details of what she had left in that house. The police dropped Miranda off at the nearby station and left her in the cold and dingy interrogation room. Even though she could not see them on the outside, she felt their eyes watching, waiting for her to combust. The door swung open and in came the cop that drove her to the precinct. His nametag glinted under a singular bright bulb hanging from the ceiling: Officer Delmart. In the light of the room his face looked ragged and tired, like the last thing he wanted to deal with was questioning the likes of her. “Okay,” he said sitting down across from Miranda. “I want to be very clear with you right now.” He scratched his chin and reviewed the notes he took from the crime scene. “This looks very bad for you.” Miranda looked down, her hands still covered with red splotches and her nails caked with dirt and grime. She looked up and met his eyes. “What if I told you it wasn’t me?” He furrowed his eyebrows, and she elaborated. “The weapon you have is cursed. It brings harm to anyone around it, and I happened to be its victim.” The officer took a minute to take in what she had said, then he burst out laughing. It was not a laugh one gives at the end of a funny joke; no, this laugh was

filled with mockery and ridicule. Miranda slunk back in her chair, already feeling defeated. “I know it sounds crazy! My sister and I were cleaning my dead uncle’s house, and we found it buried in a pile of junk. We did not know what it was, and I stupidly stuck it in my purse to keep.” The officer’s laughing ceased, then turned into sighs of frustration. “Do you honestly expect me to believe a knife haunted you and made you kill your sister? Yeah, right. You’re going to be a hoot for my colleague.” With that he got up and left the room, leaving Miranda in the deafening silence. The officer was greeted outside by his friend Carlos on the Forensics team. His face looked white, and his eyes were glazed over with fear. “Good lord what is wrong with you?” he asked as Carlos neared him. “What do you know about that knife that you brought down to me earlier?” he implored. Delmart looked at him for a minute and took in his urgent eyes and impatient attitude. “I don’t know. It was used by her on her own sister,” he said gesturing towards Miranda. “I don’t know how to tell you this but. . . I think there’s something wrong with it.” Carlos was a very intelligent man, top of his class, and continued to read and discover new things, but he was not making any sense. “So, you’re also going to tell me an inanimate object is haunted?” Delmart rolled his eyes and tried to leave the room, only to be pulled back by Carlos. Carlos gripped his hand tightly around the officer’s arm. “Please, just come with me,” Carlos begged. “Something happened.” He led Delmart down to the forensics room and nothing could prepare him for what he was about to see.

The entire forensics room was trashed. The tables were overturned, and papers scattered all over the floor. Shelves of evidence were laying on the floor as well, completely broken and destroyed. Through the array of the mess, the singular knife was right in the middle of the room. Nothing near it or covering it. It was almost as if it was on display. “Strange right?” Carlos said.

“Yeah. No one could have possibly done this?” Delmart asked. “I’m the only one working down here today.” Suddenly, the lights started flickering and eventually shut off. Leaving the two in pitch black darkness. Slamming doors and cabinets sounded all around them, echoing throughout the room. It was almost deafening. “What is going on?” Delmart yelled over the noise. “I don’t know! All this started when you brought that stupid knife down!” Both men rushed around trying to find the exit, but no luck. Delmart had been an officer for over thirty years, and he had experienced a lot of horrific things, but nothing compared to this. The lights began to flicker again, and that is when he saw a tall, dark figure cornering Carlos. Carlos looked from Delmart to the figure and tried to run, only to collide with the very same knife. Hand over his wound, Carlos knelt to the ground and tried to say something but fell onto the floor facedown instead. The figure then turned to Delmart with its evil eyes glowing. Closer and closer it came, growing bigger than ever. Delmart closed his eyes tight and waited for his fate to be sealed.

I opened my eyes as I was hit by a ray of bright light and the strong smell of old books. I could not see the source of the light; however, I was astonished by what I did see. On all sides of me there were shelves of books, thousands upon tens of thousands of them running in all directions. While the walls had ordinary (yet freakishly tall), rectangular bookshelves, the shelves created the facade of a sphere as they curved upward into spiraling rotundas. They curved inwards, outwards; some upwards and some downwards. Every inch of wall was covered in books. I thought I could begin to make out a pinnacling dome shape for the roof, but that only curved outwards in both directions. As I stood up, a man approached me, and I said, “You sir, what is this place?” “You are in the Great Library—life itself!” I scanned the vaulted halls of this “Great Library,” noticing droves of people scattered everywhere, each browsing the shelves.

“What are all of these books? Why are all these people here? Who are you?” “Thank you for asking. I am Anthro Biblio the Three-Thousand and Fifty First. I am one of the many servants of the Great Librarian who manages all this. These people are like you, sir. They are looking for books that most suit them.” “How does one even begin to fathom the endless incomprehensibilities of these infinite bookshelves!” “Often the books people read are dictated by where they are in these halls. Some may have entered the library closer to the Great Atrium, while others may be back in one of the mazes.” “The Great Atrium?” “Yes. That’s what lights the whole library; however, few ever make their way to it. Many must find the appropriate book even to be aware that it exists. The Great Atrium is where the Great Librarian holds office and where the Master Circulation desk exists.” So, I did what any patron would do in an endless library: I began scanning books, trying to satiate my curiosity. I noticed that the organization of the books was unclear. One could get a general sense of the kinds of books they could find in certain areas of the library, however, there were still many different places where one

could find books on identical topics. Furthermore, the books were not organized alphabetically. The quest to curate one’s selection of books seemed impossible. I noticed that every patron was provided a shopping cart. People would roll their cartloads of books to a reading room, pile their books on one of the wooden tables, pull up a chair, and begin reading. As I entered a reading room, I discovered an empty table among a sea of hundreds of other tables. In perusing my first collection of books, my goal was to find out more about this Great Atrium and the Great Librarian. Piling books onto my table, I was reminded of the titles I had selected: The Ecstasy of the Sexual Appetite, The Throes of Religion, Life’s Pride: Money, Career Fulfilment, Having a Godly Family Life and even the conspicuous Your Guide to Finding the Great Atrium. However, I also noticed that many titles in my cart were not ones I had selected, nor were all the titles I had wanted to read in my cart: Walking on a Broken Leg, When Your Mother Says She Never Loved You, and Dealing with a Vocational Setback. On the more positive side I found books on, The Cash Influx: Tripling Your Investment Yield, Lifelong Friend and An Improvement of Efficiency: When Productivity and Innovation Shape Your Life. Perhaps, the most curious thing about the books was that I could not skim ahead. Every book contained a locking-frame mechanism. Only a small portion of each book was viewable at a time through a small lens that covered the page. As I would read, the lens would slowly move down the page. At any time, I could go back and reread previous pages, yet the text got smaller the further along you were in the book.

Naturally, I started reading the Your Guide on Finding the Great Atrium, thinking that it would tell me how to find the source of light permeating the library. Reading it proved unsatisfactory. It was a short volume filled with useless trivialities, sensationism, and self-help ideas but not an inkling of real insight. Upon finishing, I saw a finely-dressed apparition floating by. She appeared to be another staff-person of the library. “Excuse me, madam. Will any of these books tell me how to find the Great Atrium?” “Hello, sir,” she said as she floated over, “I would say that, while these books may be entertaining or even insightful, none of them will tell you how to find the Great Atrium.” “Could you recommend any books that would?” “Why, a colleague of mine did! You were so engrossed with trying to choose the right books you completely ignored them. You didn’t even notice they were there. I’m afraid at this point you’re on your own.”

“Please don’t condemn me like that. Give me a second chance.”

“The only books that will tell you are in the library’s dungeon.” “The dungeon! You must be mad! I hear that it is only dark down there.” “You must look in the dark crypt to find where the source of light is. The Great Librarian has made it so—the most important books are hidden there. Without countless hands touching them, the books remain in better condition. Plus, the lack of the light keeps them well-preserved.” I realized that she made a good point, but I did not want to spend time descending the staircase to the crypt when I already had a large collection of books.

“Well thank you, madam. I should have to take you up on your suggestion. First, I intend to read many of these books. Finding the Great Atrium could wait a little bit.”

It was late December, and it was late in the day, which was when Mel liked to take his walks. He started this ritual a few days ago, so it really wasn’t much of a ritual yet. What did it was the snow. They had gotten about six inches last week, pretty good for this far east, and he liked the crunch under his boots. It warmed up a little since then, but not enough to melt all six inches. By now, the snow that was left was dirty and had no sparkle, which was pretty much how this year felt. Who was he kidding, that was how he felt. But it still crunched. And sometimes you could walk by a frozen puddle (of dirty street water), and you could stomp it with your boot, and it would sound like breaking glass. He took his walks at night to avoid the neighbors. No one wanted to be out after dark when it was this cold. In the daytime, the streets could be filthy with neighbors, especially if the sun was out. Then they’d ask how he was, and he’d have to ask them. Then they’d talk about the weather until the conversation lagged long enough for him to get away. You might, for instance, have a few days of warm weather only to have one of the neighborhood wits say, “Boy, that was a tough winter we had!” (Haha!). Mel was just walking by his neighbor Cas’s house when he heard someone in the yard give what sounded to him like a hoot of pleasure. The sound forced a surprised and muzzy response from him—something like “Oh-ah!.” He looked, his heart racing, and saw in the middle of the yard Cas himself crouching over a long object rising out of snow-laden turf. Cas looked up and said, “Hey, Mel, come here. You gotta see this!” When Cas raised his mittened hand to wave Mel over, he saw the object was a children’s telescope. “Come on, you can see the rings!” Before Mel had really even considered whether he wanted to see something’s rings or not, he demurred.

“Maybe on the way back.” Mel gestured with his thumb to indicate which way back was, but Cas was already peering into the eyepiece again. Mel trudged on, still enjoying the sound of the packed gray snow beneath his feet. He thought about the year that had been. He thought about the year to come. He hoped the new one would be better.

There wasn’t much street left beyond Cas’s house, so he headed back after only a few minutes. He crossed and returned on the far side. Maybe Cas would be so distracted by whatever was in the eyepiece that he wouldn’t notice. But the snow gave him away. Payback for all that stomping. Cas looked up and beckoned him over. Mel surprised himself by climbing the slope of the yard to where Cas was standing without comment. For the first time that night, Mel looked up. He saw the bright moon, closer and larger than he expected. He saw the stars, hard and sharp. He saw the clear, crisp darkness out of which their light shone. “Whoa,” he breathed. “Huh,” Cas cocked his head to look at him, “Yeah. That’s good, too. But look at this.” Cas stepped back and gestured for Mel to take his place at the telescope. Mel did, and bowed to the eyepiece. “Be careful not to touch it. Just kind of hover your eye over it. It’s hard to get it back if we lose it.” Mel looked carefully in, and, at first, saw a huge brightness. But he realized that was only the reflection of his own eye or some other trick of the telescope. He settled over it more comfortably and saw a very small, bright circle. It vibrated a bit from the breeze, but, as it stilled, Mel could discern even smaller pinpoints of light on an impossibly straight line to either side of the circle. “I don’t see any rings,” Mel said. “Oh, right. No, you wouldn’t. Sorry. I switched to Jupiter. That’s Jupiter.” Mel didn’t know you could see anything as far away as Jupiter from your neighbor’s front yard. “Oh, yeah. So those are—”

“Moons. Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto.” Mel wondered if he could see the milky pattern of the planet itself. He tried to make himself see it, but he couldn’t. “Here, lemme get Saturn back for you.”

Mel moved aside, and Cas fiddled with some knobs and then stuck face against the eyepiece some more. He reached out and wobbled the lens-end of the telescope. “There. Now look.” When the vibration stopped, Mel saw it. Saturn. Tilted on its axis. Somewhere way out there. He could see the rings. He could see the planet settled right in the midst of them. Almost like an egg in a nest. Or like an embrace. “That must be far away,” Mel heard himself say. “745 million miles. Googled it.”

Mel looked at the planet’s orange glow. Softer than Jupiter’s. Warmer. “I wonder,” he said, “how long it takes that light to get here.” “Looked that up, too. About ten seconds.” Mel thought that Cas said this with the air of a magician revealing the prestige of a trick. “Ten seconds?” Mel repeated. “Seems like it should take longer to travel so far.” Cas just shrugged. When Mel finished his walk that night he didn’t look at the snow. He looked up at whatever stars he could see. Now and then he glanced back over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Saturn before it set. It wasn’t every day you saw Saturn from your own neighborhood. But, he guessed, there was really no reason why you couldn’t.

Drawing back the curtains he could see it would be no good to stay inside. For staying indoors when there is fresh air to be felt and enjoyed on such a day is not against the law, but it is a crime nonetheless. His day lay before him completely free, so he set off out the door, quickly hopping down the sturdy, dark stairs of his porch and into the clusters of trees that lay before him, inviting him to come explore and be merry in their woods. All the while he walked, over the hills, stepping over rocks and grass and soil he felt he wasn’t alone. It was as if some warm presence was traveling by his side and sometimes it seemed to take a step ahead to guide him. He enjoyed the presence, though he didn’t know what it was. He could feel its intentions were good and was very pleased not to experience the marvelous day alone. Now if you are like many of the people who have heard this story, you are sure that this is a dream. But our friend would not stand for that and insisted that he was fully in his senses. “If that day was a dream, my whole life must be something even less true—for that was the realest moment I ever experienced,” he often said. The strangeness met its climax when something told him to stop. Not an audible voice, but just as clear in his mind. It was then that it happened. You see, our friend was let in on a secret that very few know, though anybody who wants to know can know simply by seeking the truth with their whole heart. And at that moment, his ears were opened and he began to hear singing all around him. It was a beautiful song, sung by nature. The music seemed to fit perfectly with the wonder and beauty he had always noticed in nature when the vibrant colors of green and yellow seem to sing in the golden light of the sun, but now he actually heard it! Yet, in the midst of this beauty and wonder, it was a song of mourning. A song that made it clear that something wrong had happened—something indeed very terrible. It was a song of an evil power rebelling against the pure. A song sung by slaves wrongfully captured and forced under the power of a master who had no claim on their lives. This was not a normal song of mourning, for there was hope, which allowed the beautiful song to continue. And so he knew that it all joined into one great sound: where beauty, anguish, and hope all converge to sing the praise of something greater than itself. For it was clear that although they were singing to each other, it was not to them only. All of this was going on for the glory of Another. Another who is seen through nature, who all of nature loves and serves. The traveler thought he recognized the different themes of the music while observing nature before. In the winter as the leaves have all fallen away and died the tree shows its nakedness and sorrow. It is corrupted and not as it should be. Yet in the summer, as it is clothed in its beauty and majesty and is most happy, it shows the hope and wonder. But this is only a small sign. For what it can only show throughout the course of the year is all being told in a single measure of the song. Its beauty and delight mixed with its frustration with things as they now are combined with its hope in things slowly being redeemed. For soon the mutiny will finally be laid to rest and its traitors with it, having the ransom paid and the king taking back rightful power to save His work that He had allowed briefly to wander in the hands of the dark prince. 25

He could tell the music was old, much older than himself. Indeed, the music had started long before he was thought of by his parents (for there was never a time he hadn’t been thought of at all—but only a short time was he thought of by human minds). It had been around since time itself was still in the womb and not yet birthed into existence. It had the wisdom and splendor of old. Yet, though it was old, each time it was played it invigorated new feelings and desires in a way that no normal pleasure to us lasts. For things so often lose their wonder in our world. And yet the music was like the wonder of the rising and setting sun—that although a daily pleasure, it always captures the imagination of its viewers. It may be from long ago, but it has a message to share to this present world. It had a cry of urgency that it must be shared with others! And shared now! Something great is at work! It was far from being outdated—how could anything true and good be outdated? He knew the message must be shared, and he must aid it. For there were people who had not heard it, had not savored its sweetness and been molded by its message. Words can never replicate what he felt or give the audience the experience of it if they have not known it already, but still I have tried to describe the surpassing beauty as our traveler had seen that one day in the woods when he was all alone, yet in deeper fellowship than at any other point in his life.

In olden days when the world was young and men were scarce, it is known that the world was full of monsters. From their lairs the dragons gathered vast glittering hoards of gold and laid waste to any who would dare steal their treasures. The seas teemed with great serpents that would rise up and drag unwary ships into the depths, fair maidens who wrapped themselves in the skins of seals, and entire islands housed on the backs of enormous migratory turtles. The forests were home to great wargs whose howls chilled men to the bone, were-beasts that took upon themselves the forms of both men and animals, and noble unicorns whose horn purified any liquid that it touched. Even our homes stood under the ever watchful eyes of fae tricksters that offered great boons in exchange for the hospitality of strangers, the cunning vampyr who relied upon that hospitality in order to feed upon the innocent, and the house spirits who watched over our families and protected them for generations. Walking among us in the streets were witches and gods and spirits, hidden behind the guises of ordinary men and women when we were none the wiser. In olden days our maps warned us of the dangers lying in the world beyond our reach. Written upon the globes and charts we warned men of the perils they might encounter with the words, “Here there be monsters.” Now where do we stand? Our world now stretches from one end of the globe to the other, and what does that leave? The dragons of the West were the first to be killed, first by Vikings in search of the gold and jewels that they hoarded, then followed by the English kings and saints who did not take kindly to another extracting tribute from their subjects. The dragons of the East were a more introspective lot and wisely went into hiding before they could share a similar fate—so the legend goes. The great wargs were hunted and skinned for their hides, given as gifts to English kings and nobles in exchange for ascent from the peasantry to the status of lord over the lands over which the wolves once held dominion. The unicorns were hunted most maliciously. The noble beasts were lured in with that which they could not resist, the lap of a virgin maiden. When the unicorn placed its head onto her lap and gave itself over to sleep the hunters struck, capturing the noble stallion and butchering it. The liver they mixed with egg yolk to create a salve for leprosy. The leather from it’s hide was made into belts to guard against plague and fevers and soles of shoes to protect the legs and feet from disease. The horns were cleaved from the horse’s head and hollowed for use as drinking vessels or powdered as medicine, for they could neutralize any corruption, poison, or plague with but a simple touch. The church eradicated the vampyrs who dared to feed upon their holy flock.

Their corpses were staked, bound, and consecrated, with bricks shoved into their mouths in fear that they might ever return to menace the world of men again. The witches were ferreted out and exposed to all manner of cruel tortures when their subtle magics were overcome. They were beaten, branded, and deprived of sleep until they confessed their witchcraft. Once confessed, they were drowned, hanged, burned at the stake, or even beheaded for their crimes against God. The were-beasts were domesticated, brought to heel by the Irish kings of Ossory, and elsewhere killed or forced far from the lands of civilized men out of fear of their ferocity. The selkies were erased, their beautiful seal-skins stolen and leveraged by cruel men who sought only for a beautiful wife to marry. When they could not acquire a selkie wife, they instead sought to cajole the fair folk in a similar manner and so the fae eventually withdrew, sealing their faerie rings to protect themselves from the greed of men. In time we built great ships that scattered themselves throughout the world, churning the seas and forcing the great serpents and turtles into the calmer depths. With nothing to stop us, we discovered new lands and creatures. We colonized and grew our villages into towns, our towns into cities, our cities into metropolises. We razed forests to build our homes and forced the creatures of the woods deep into the mountains. We found new tales. The Sasquatch. The Chupacabra. And soon we pushed them into obscurity for threatening our livelihoods as well. We built the world into a shrine to humanity and now the only question is: what is left? Where be there monsters?

Mason Arledge earned his B.S. in English with a writing concentration and a writing certificate from Missouri Baptist University, where he graduated with highest honors. Along the way, he won awards for his work in academia, creative writing, and editing. He has published blogs, articles, spoken word, poetry, and short stories. He is currently seeking publication for his first novel. Mason is a fitness enthusiast who enjoys adventures, plays piano and guitar, and moonlights as an amateur videographer. He loves dogs, is allergic to cats, likes blackberries, despises banana-flavored candy, survived a long hair phase, and listens to ‘80s music.

Matthew Bardowell is Associate Professor of English at Missouri Baptist University, where he teaches British Literature and serves as faculty sponsor for the Creative Writing Club. In addition to his work in Flash!, Matthew’s short fiction also appears in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal.

Hannah Gooch is editor of Flash!: A Journal of Very Short Fiction. She has been writing short stories from the age of thirteen. She has earned her Associative Art in Teaching Degree from State Fair Community College and currently attends Missouri Baptist University where she pursues a Bachelor's of Science in Teaching and Learning. She hopes to become an author while working towards her career goal of becoming a school counselor.

Trevor Nation lives in St. Louis, Missouri, where he attends Missouri Baptist University.

Micah Perstrope graduated from Missouri Baptist in the fall of 2021 with a major in Ministry and Leadership and minors in Church Planting and Business Administration. He currently serves as Director of Youth and Outreach at CrossHaven church in O’Fallon, Missouri. Micah loves music and plays the drums, piano, bass, and guitar. He also enjoys reading and drinking coffee.

Adam Schmidt is first and foremost a person rescued by Jesus. He loves studying the Bible and has a passion for how it's intricate details can make a meaningful difference in those who know the Lord. Upon graduation, Adam is looking to blend his technology and content skills as an editor or a website manager. Godwilling, he's considering future graduate studies in Old Testament and desire to work in publishing or academia. He occasionally blogs at blog.biblewiki.com and is blessed to be a member at First Baptist Arnold and its Revive College Ministry. Bobby Upchurch is a husband, father, high school English teacher, and pastor now living in Southeast Missouri. His parents are international missionaries, so an impactful portion of his life was spent in Eastern Europe. Today, his time is consumed by family, church, and... student essays.